"I guess you could say that," I say, deciding to play along.
There’s only one way to find out. I’m going to give her an opening and see how far she fucking wants to take this.
"So tell me. Is the rumor true?" I ask.
She doesn't respond, but just furrows her brow, so I continue, "Do all women really love retail above all else?"
The confusion dissipates from her face. "Retail therapy is a thing." The way she responds with her head cocked back, and a slight smile parting her thick, juicy lips, makes my cock twitch. Damn. She's something else.
"Then I have a proposition."
"Oh yeah? What's that?"
"I say we get out of this place and indulge in a little retail therapy."
Sometimes you've got to be bold. I watch as she determines whether or not this is a good idea. I can almost picture the inner workings of her brain. One side urging her to stay at the gym and do the sensible thing—get her workout in and not fraternize with the ill-behaved stepson. The other, wilder side of her brain—and I'm now beginning to think she has a wild side—urging her to leave. I begin to wonder which side will win when she responds.
"Sure, let's blow this joint." I can't believe my luck. And did she just emphasize the word blow?
"Let me grab my things from the locker room," she continues. "I'll meet you out front."
I watch as she walks away, her perfect ass sashaying across the gym and I can't fucking believe she's agreed to hang out with me. I drop the weights and quickly grab my things from the locker room as well. By the time I walk outside, I see her standing there, carefully applying lipstick. I feel like I'm on a roll, so I say, "I have an idea. Let's count shoulders."
"What are you talking about?"
"Watch me," I say, standing directly in front of her. I start counting, tapping my shoulders first. "One, two…" and then I move my hand to her shoulders, "Three, four." And now that I'm done counting and I've created an excuse to touch her—see what I just did?—I drape my arm across her shoulders and say, "Let's go."
She smiles, but pulls away. "Easy there," she laughs. "I'll give you credit. You are bold. I like that in a man."
Good. At least she sees me as a man, and not a kid. I know there's a sizeable age difference between us, but it's no different from the one between her and my dad. "Would you expect anything less from the Lance Anders?" I reply.
"How much woman can you handle?"
Holy shit. The way she just asked that made my heart leap into my fucking throat. I can't even answer that question, so instead I smile and order an Uber for us. She watches as I pull the app up on my phone.
"What kind of ride are you? Long or short?" she asks.
"I'm the longest ride you'll ever need." Like I said, two can play this game.
She raises an eyebrow and simply smiles.
We take the Uber to Saks Fifth Avenue. I figure I can't go wrong with this store—there's designer apparel at every level—shows, accessories, housewares, and when we step out of the car, I see her face light up and I know I've definitely made the right choice. I follow her into the building as she walks at a fast clip to the women's clothing, her heels clicking against the floor. She changed at the gym and is no longer wearing yoga pants. She's wearing a tight black dress and heels, and honestly, I can't keep my eyes off of her. Does she always go the gym with an extra change of clothes? I wonder to myself.
"Here's what I'm looking for," she says. I look around and see we're standing in the women's blouse section. "What do you think of this one?"
I honestly think any fucking blouse would look amazing on her, but I simply say, "I like it."
My answer doesn't seem good enough because she gives it another critical look. She holds the shirt in front of her, one hand on her hip. "I think I should try it on."
I nod my head and follow her to the dressing rooms. I find a bench and sit down.
"I'll wait right here," I say. I lean back and check my phone—no calls or texts, which is good—and I wait.
"Lance? Can you come here?"
I make sure no one is looking before heading into the dressing rooms. Are men even allowed back here? "Where are you?" I ask, just above a whisper.
"Right here."